


Yellow

by PomPoms



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eye Trauma, Imprisonment, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-02-12 08:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12954981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomPoms/pseuds/PomPoms
Summary: Megatron gives himself a pass on this one. Not that he deserves a pass on anything. It is his fault, after all.The war is over, in stereotypical fashion. Optimus Prime and the Autobots have risen victorious over Megatron and his Decepticons. But, what's this? The universe is rapidly headed towards total domination with the Prime's victory, not freedom. That's right, this is Shattered Glass, baby! If you're confused, don't worry. So is Megatron! The murderous Prime's intentions read for a painful execution in his future, not being thrown into a cell of Prime's own making. Still, that's where he's found himself, and let me tell you-- he is *not* taking it well.Chapter 4: A little peace and quiet goes a long way.





	1. Start

**Author's Note:**

> This work is one tiny piece of a much larger story set in a Shattered Glass AU developed by a friend and myself. It takes place two days before said story begins in earnest and acts as the first part of its prologue.  
> I post the chapters in asynchronous order and will title them with where they fall in the timeline of these two days.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron makes a new friend.

Megatron is fatigued, defeated, sick, broken, _tired_. He's propped up in the corner of a cell, _his cell_ , gaze fixed on the wall opposite him because he can't muster up the energy to do much else. The wall has been painted, the pattern upon it large and intricate enough for his eyes to follow while he contemplates his situation. Contemplate, of course, implies organization to one's thoughts; that one is consciously making abstractions. Megatron isn't doing that. His mind races a mile a minute, haphazardly making connections before continuing on in a broken track. This isn't even up to his usual standard of wallowing, and it only serves to fully illustrate that he is, indeed _tired_.

It isn't quite the right word-- tired doesn't begin to describe the crushing grief that has settled firmly in his spark-- but it's close and safe enough that he feels comfortable labeling himself with it.

So, he's tired. He's injured too, and that's certainly not helping the situation. Granted, he can't really _feel_ the injuries anymore, and that should likely worry him a great deal more than it is. However, anyone would find it difficult to spare more than a fleeting thought to one's injuries when the spectre of death looms nigh, so Megatron gives himself a pass on this one. Not that he deserves a pass on anything. It is his fault, after all. Everything from here on out is his fault, too.

If Starscream were here he'd-- Megatron extinguishes that line of thought before it can start. Starscream _isn't_ here. He won't ever be. For the first time in a very, very long while, Megatron is well and truly alone. Alone in Prime's territory, in a prison that resembles his rooms when the Decepticons still had a stationary base more than it does a cell. He can practically taste the patronistic glee with which Prime must have ordered its construction.

 _How far you have fallen_ , mocks the pattern on the wall. It's frustratingly complex-- no matter what line he chooses, no matter how much attention he gives it, Megatron loses track before he can reach the end. _You've doomed us all._

"Quiet." He snarls, to no one. The wall stays where it is. He is, Megatron notes-- with the same detached air he'd considered his injuries with-- probably losing it. The last bastion of himself corroding because he's already lost everything else worthwhile. Fitting. Probably. He's not quite sure anymore, because he's very--

 _Tired_ , hisses the pattern, cutting through his thoughts like Prime's ax through any one of Megatron's mechs and Megatron _is_ tired but he's enraged too, at himself, at Prime, at the injustice that has befallen him.

 _Enemies of Primus don't get happy endings_ , replies the traitorous pattern, adopting too much of Prime's familiar timber for Megatron.

"Quiet!" He repeats, yelling this time, and again the pattern of the wall stops its incessant shifting and speaking and he gets some modicum of peace before it replies. 

A headache begins to to burrow behind his eyes as the quiet mounts. Pops of color manifest in his vision, burst in time with his sparkbeat. It's only when the headache has reached a crescendo that leaves him breathless that Megatron realizes that the pattern's voice has well and truly deserted him. The wall is as it was before: lifeless. 

Megatron can't help it-- he howls.


	2. Night One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unfortunate.

Were he a lesser mech, Megatron would likely have shattered by now. He's close enough as is, yet somehow holding onto some semblance of an emotionless mask. Starscream would be proud. _Unfortunate._

But there's Starscream now-- splattered across Optimus’s boots and hands. He's finally the purple Megatron has always adored. Now that he sees it, though, Megatron’s not so sure about the palette on his second in command. Honestly? He would rather have the tempestuous jet flaunting his off-brand red instead.

"I'd like your _total_ attention." The Prime’s face is abruptly brought into view as a finger curls under Megatron’s chin and forces his gaze skyward. He pauses, as if giving Megatron a moment to drink it all in. “Now, isn’t that better?”

He’s retracted his battle mask and intentional or not-- heat rolls across Megatron’s upturned face with every one of Prime’s exhales.

“ _Megatron_ ,” Optimus sighs, long-suffering and ever patient, “your mind is wandering again.”

Megatron would like to reply. 

“You see, Megatron, you’re mine now.” The Prime continues and the words stuck in Megatron’s throat crumple into ashes then and there. The thumb at his chin presses into the metal there, ever so softly. It’s a promise-- but of what, Megatron can’t be sure.

He manages a soft croak in reply.

“I could kill you, but I have an idea that should provide far more entertainment.” Optimus shifts his hand, drags it up Megatron’s face so he cradles the curve of his cheek in his palm. “All those friends of yours could end up like your little jet, you know. They’re so easily crushed, I’m not sure how you thought you could ever beat me.” A smile blossoms across Prime’s face. “You know what to do, _don’t you Megatron_?”

Megatron sits, frozen. He’s trapped beneath the Prime and the earth below them both; hot and cold, hot and cold. Optimus is far too close and Megatron’s fans won’t kick on and the heat inside him continues to rise with every exhalation that fans across his mouth. He wishes he could choose the cold.

The smile on Optimus’s face softens at his hesitation, indulgent. “I will remind you that you can’t afford to refuse me.”

Megatron’s mouth opens again, and again no sound will emerge. Everything he wants to yell, howl, scream-- it’s all stuck. Optimus’s smile widens once more.

“There you go-- it’s not so hard to _beg_ a little, now is it?” The joints in Megatron’s knees give way with an audible groan and he falls, gaze still directed to the mad conqueror. His armor ices over where it connects with the ground. Should he survive this encounter, Megatron will never again take its chill for granted. There’s a lot he won’t be able to--

“ _Megatron_.” His helm rattles as Prime strikes him across the face, open palmed. Sparks pop in his vision as the light in his left eye abruptly gutters out. “You don’t have to make this difficult.”

Megatron’s body burns once more, robbed of his brief respite. He lets his mouth flap open like a fish and tries to get the words out. They don’t come.

“I always was a fool for your apologies,” Optimus murmurs, thoughtful. “I’m afraid it won’t be enough this time. This will be, I think, the last time you defy me.” He drapes his hand across Megatron’s functioning eye, rubs his thumb across the overheated glass.

Megatron jerks backwards-- or rather, he tries. Metals crunch and glass shatters as Optimus drives his fingers through the eye socket and hooks a finger, neatly, over the ridged skeletal structure inside. It should hurt. It doesn't.

“You are not going anywhere, my dear Megatron. Your journey has met its end.” The Prime laughs then, as if he’s cracked a joke they are both in on. He pauses for a beat and leaves Megatron to drink in the absence of pain. “Well. Let’s continue, shall we?”

 

Megatron onlines suddenly-- alone. Prime does not stand before him, both his eyes function as he drinks in the now familiar set-up of his cell, and he is not boiling alive in his armor. He is sitting on the floor, alone, and he is cold.

"How very like Prime--" Megatron says to himself, purely because he can, "--to not grant me rest even in my sleep." It’s the waiting that’s doing this to him. If Optimus would only pay him a visit, reveal the nefarious fate no doubt planned for him-- his brain would no longer be forced to create nightmare scenarios in anticipation. Somehow, Megatron wouldn't be putting it past the Prime to be doing it on purpose. 

"Yes," he decides. Optimus could never resist creating every drop of misery he could. How very like Prime, indeed.


	3. Night Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This dream sequence was written by my delightful friend and co-creator of this specific AU. He doesn't have an AO3 account, which is a darn shame. He's such a great writer. :3c

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Megatron knows quite well that he has never occupied a throne. 

The chairs that are scattered around his war table are, to a one, plain and simple; interchangeable. That's one of the many things that make the Decepticons different from their enemies, after all: they are all equals. Megatron's followers revere him because they _want_ to; no one Decepticon is above another.

Well. That said—there is something about it that he finds oddly satisfying. The chair. And—in all honesty, he has earned the right to indulge himself. Just a little bit.

"Have you had your Autobots build you a throne, Prime?" he says, amiable. It’s easy to imagine. Prime seems like the type that would suit an impractically large, imposing chair. Something with panache, but a muted palette. Not ostentatious. Just...commanding.

Well. Unfortunately for Prime, the time for that has passed. Perhaps in another life.

Prime hasn't answered him, but that's to be expected; he hasn't been particularly talkative as of late. Were Megatron to hazard a guess, he'd say it's Ultra Magnus that's weighing on his mind—that _had_ been an excellent fight, and it was a shame it had ended the way it did. Just when it had been getting good, too. Bruticus—although he really is a sweetheart—does have an unfortunate habit of getting carried away at times. Megatron blames Vortex.

Megatron drums his fingers idly on the arm of his chair. He is starting to get just a little bit irritated. For the first few days, he had been understanding—more so than Prime deserves, to be sure—but it’s been long enough now that he feels like he’s justified in expecting a little bit more. More courtesy? More attention; more respect. More fight.

Megatron looks down at Prime, the beginnings of a frown on his face. Prime looks back at him, unreadable as ever; he hasn’t moved in ages. At this point, in his position, Megatron would be getting tired—but, now that Megatron is looking, he thinks that perhaps Prime _is_ tired. It's simply difficult for him to recognize, because—in all these years—it’s not a look he’s seen before.

He likes it.

Almost unconsciously, Megatron reaches out; he changes his mind at the last minute, decides not to go for the jaw, and takes one of Prime’s antennae in hand. The one on the left—Megatron’s left—the one that’s still long enough to grip, with the broken tip. He is gentle enough when he pulls him closer, but firm; not that he needs to be.

Optimus doesn’t fight him.

“Prime,” Megatron says, still affable, but at this point it’s only a formality. “I asked you a question. Did I not?”

Prime doesn’t answer that one, either.

Megatron smiles. Not with his eyes—with his teeth.

Leaning forward like this, Prime is off-balance; he looks up at Megatron, still with that unreadable expression. Or lack thereof. On his knees, with the stasis cuffs trapping his hands behind his back, he has no way to steady himself.

Helplessness, Megatron has decided, looks good on him.

Primus, now that it’s in his hand, all he wants to do is snap it. They’re sensitive, Prime’s antennae; to Megatron, that seems like a serious design flaw. But then, pain doesn’t bother him overmuch. At least in battle. Megatron settles for digging his fingers into the side of his head, slowly and carefully, and leaning in, just a little bit. As, one at a time, the tip of each claw punctures his plating and grazes the energon lines underneath, Prime’s eyes narrow and he twists his head ever so slightly away. Not enough for it to be intentional; just enough that it is, without a doubt, a reaction.

Pain doesn’t bother him overmuch. But it is satisfying, still—even now, over and over again, to prove that he is not indomitable.

“What do I have to do,” Megatron says, with such deliberate politesse that it is sharp, like everything else about him, “to get an _answer_ out of you, Prime?”

Prime doesn’t answer.

Naturally.

Well—it has been a few days, at least. Long enough that the purple—his favorite shade, despite the connotations; bright and lovely to look at, not dark like Prime’s paint—has, thanks to one thing or another, begun to flake or fade. He decides it’s time to reapply it.

Left hand just a little closer, and he reaches out and hooks the claws of his right neatly into Prime’s neck. With what armor he’d had there to protect him now conveniently missing—Megatron can’t remember why, or when, but he can see the telltale marks left when metal is torn from metal scattered across the cabling in a manner that looks painful enough—his fingers fit comfortably into the mess of wires and fuel lines that remains. Comfortably for him, that is. He can’t imagine Prime is enjoying this.

Ah. Prime makes a noise. Just like most of his expressions, it’s ambiguous, and even so it feels like a victory. Megatron gives him a disdainful little smile. “There you go. And now a little more. It’s not so hard, is it?”

Megatron breaks his own rule—the one about detachment—and he leans in to look Optimus dead in the eye.  
_“Indulge me.”_

And, with the tip of his thumb, he traces an elegant seam down an exposed energon line. Not a major artery, and Prime has plenty; he won’t miss one.

But he will _feel_ it.

The incision is neat enough that the energon seeps out, leisurely, instead of weeping; it beads up before it begins to dribble down onto Prime’s chest. Prime makes another inscrutable noise, very soft.

And then he says, with his voice raw from disuse—or maybe not—he says, “Very well.” The movement of his jaw flexes the cables in his neck; it aggravates the line that Megatron has cut. It bends; energon drips. “I suppose,” he says, “you have earned it.”

Megatron has what he wants; and he decides—after all, he _is_ indulging himself—that he is not going to let go just yet. Just a little longer. It _is_ very satisfying.

Megatron lets the corners of his mouth turn up and says, conversational—see, he is more than reasonable, perfectly polite, as long as he is respected in turn—and he says, “Prime. Are you upset with me?”

Prime makes a little movement that is arrested almost immediately by Megatron’s fingers, tangled in the cables of his neck. It takes Megatron a moment to realize he meant to cock his head. Megatron considers; and then he rests his thumb on Prime’s jaw and gently leads him where he intended to go. The mannerism is—even after all these years—familiar.

It is strange to feel it in his fingers when Prime speaks. “No, Megatron,” he says quietly. “I am not.”

Megatron lets his lip curl. “Naturally. Why would you be?” Just for a moment, he lets his fingers entertain the idea of coming together around—inside—Prime’s neck—god, it would be _so_ easy—and then he lets the moment pass and, with a bitter little _tch_ he releases Prime altogether and he drops back onto his knees with another almost-imperceptible vocalization. “Even in defeat, you think yourself above all this.” Tap, tap, fingers against the armrest; not that he’ll show it—or at least, he’ll do his best not to—but oh, is he _livid_ that once again Optimus manages to get to him by doing nothing at all.

Bizarrely, Prime’s next soft noise sounds almost like a laugh; quiet and discordant. “Megatron,” he murmurs, and Megatron is unsettled by the way he is looking at him; by the fact that, if he didn’t know better, he’d say Prime is slowly beginning to smile. “Do I look to you like I am above anything?”

Megatron scowls and slaps him across the face. Palm open, quick and without force—well, without force by their standards. It still snaps Prime’s head to the side, and the sound it makes is eminently satisfying. When Prime turns back, amusingly slow, there is energon gathering at the corner of his mouth.

“Prime,” Megatron says, doing his very best to copy his tone while making it crystal clear that he is unimpressed, “I cannot begin to tell you how much I am not in the mood for this.”

He glances, somewhat absently, at the palm of his hand. He's curious--and, naturally, it is clean. Still. “I have only so much patience,” he mutters, and he looks back at Prime, now with his full attention. “And I doubt I need to remind you that you can no longer afford to play _games_ with me.”

He was right. Prime does look tired. Somehow, this time around, it isn’t quite as satisfying. At least he’s dropped that abhorrent little not-yet-a-smirk. “Megatron,” Prime says, and his voice is uneven, “as much as I hate to admit to failure”—and he draws his eyebrows together in that way that, a very long time ago, Megatron had been quite fond of—“I must confess that I do not understand what it is you want from me.”

Megatron blinks at him.

“Want,” Megatron says, pensively. “What I want from you.”

Primus, if he didn’t know better, he’d say—the little thrill of excitement jitters through his circuits despite himself—that right there, Optimus looks almost _pleading._

“What I want, Optimus,” Megatron says, and this time his smile is warm, genuine, and all-encompassing, “is simple.”

And he has, after all, decided to indulge himself. Just a little bit. So this time, when he reaches out, he lets himself go for the jaw; three fingers of the right hand underneath, one presses gently against the cables of the neck, and the thumb just barely brushes against the line of Prime’s cheek, close enough to the surface of his eye to make him flinch.

He doesn’t.

“I want you.”

“No pretense, no facade”—Megatron chuckles; lets his other hand trace the hollow that frames Prime’s face on either side. His own handiwork. A lovely memory. “No mask.” Optimus’s quiet, ragged not-a-laugh again. This time, Megatron likes it. Quite a bit. “Just as you are.”

Self-indulgence, he thinks, yet again. _“All_ that you are.”

Optimus looks up at him with the softest eyes Megatron has seen in a very long time.

“Because my _reward,_ Optimus—the spoils of my victory—is not the rule of an empire. No crown, no primacy; not for me.” Another chuckle. “No. Nothing so ostentatious.”

“My reward,” Megatron says, the longing in his voice unmistakable, “is that I have all the time in the world to disassemble you. Piece”—he lets his hand slide up over Prime’s jaw—“by piece”—and he sets the sharp tip of his thumb against the slick surface of his eye—“by piece.”

 

 

 

“Ah. Do you know—this is the first time I’ve ever seen you cry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Megatron reaction to his dream in this chapter, sorry. : ) It's coming.


	4. Start, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Megatron makes a change.

Megatron watches the arc of Optimus's battle axe as it sails through the air and wonders, for the split second he has before it buries itself in his throat, if he ever even had a chance.

He is an enemy of Primus, after all-- of the Prime who is his incarnation-- and Megatron isn't a religious mech, but lately he's found himself more and more enamoured with _destiny_. In the future, when stories are told of the Autobots’ Glorious Conquest, Megatron will be no more than a footnote, an obstacle in their righteous war. That stings more than the knowledge of his impending death, really. Oh sure, he doesn't want to die, but he would like to leave a legacy that amounts to more than, "Megatron of Tarn: agitator, radical, dead."

'At least,' he thinks, with a measure of selfish glee, 'that arm will be an absolute _bitch_ to repair.'

_Not with Ratchet_ , reminds the pattern on the wall. Megatron scowls. The phantom Prime has melted away and the moment is lost.

"You could not be silent for," Megatron checks his internal clock and makes an educated guess, "twelve minutes?" His timepiece must be broken. Four hours do not just vanish, not in the wake of one quick daydream. He has another damaged part to throw on his ever growing list, then.

_Still tired?_ The pattern coos, because it really can't.

"Yes." Megatron snaps, rolling off his back and onto his side. His armor's been stripped of its clunky offensive capabilities, for which he finds himself unfortunately grateful. His joints already creak with the effort it takes to stand and drag himself to the wall-- any more weight and he may well have been rendered largely immobile. The indignity of such a state would have killed him long before the Prime would, which now that he thinks about it, is a pity.

Megatron concentrates on making it to the wall: one step, two steps, three and he's there. He places both hands as directly center in the pattern as he can, with the heels of his palms facing each other and his fingers spread wide. It's not the most comfortable of bracing positions but it gets the job done. "I am _still_ tired."

_Pity_ , replies the pattern on the wall.

“How could that have possibly changed in twelve minutes?” Megatron grumbles, seething hot breath across its chilled expanse.

_Twelve minutes-- that’s quite a lot of time. Your last battle with Prime ended in eleven, you know._

“Eleven and a half.”

_My mistake._

Megatron flexes his fingers against the wall’s surface. It is made to hold him securely inside, strong and sturdy and impenetrable. It won’t buckle under his devotion, but that’s not what Megatron is after. No, he’s giving into the desire to test a hypothesis-- how much can the pattern endure? How much destruction can he wreak upon it before its infernal voice _dies_?

There is, of course, only one way to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End day one.


End file.
